


Souvenir

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: Above many other things, the Doctor’s found, Amy Pond is oddly partial to souvenirs. He makes a point of buying her something on every adventure they go on.Set sporadically throughout Series 5.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Kudos: 12





	Souvenir

Above many other things, the Doctor’s found, Amy Pond is oddly partial to souvenirs.

Tiny mementos to large scale ornaments, whatever it is, whatever it reminds her of, it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s a collector of all kinds of things, be it from a holiday to Lanzarote to a trip to the grocery store, and he’s convinced she could pick up a discarded takeaway menu from the side of the road and marvel at the time it took to fall there.

In any case, he’s been in that big empty house of hers enough times to notice - the little trinkets scattered everywhere, all the flyers and the memories she keeps out on show. He likes that about her; that deep-set love of normality despite the chaos surrounding her. She’s known monsters were real for as long as he can remember, and still she celebrates a normal life on Earth as if she was none the wiser. Maybe that’s what made his coming back for her that little bit easier. She marvels at the small things, the nostalgia of school days and birthdays, and lazy Sunday afternoons. When they first run away together, he’s almost daring her to pick a piece of starlight and hang it on the wall next to her first teenage concert ticket.

In those early days, when she’s still wide-eyed and open-mouthed about everything, he almost forgets. She’s been a bit quiet on the collecting front ever since their first starry sky – the majesty of the universe overriding everything. In any case, he thinks it might be impossible to buy a postcard in the deep reaches of outer space.

He’s sitting in the TARDIS library when Amy proves him wrong. They’ve just got back from a jaunt on Starship UK, and frankly, he wouldn’t exactly expect anything less of her – not after tonight. For the girl who’s nearly blown her entire country out of the sky just to prove a point, she’s oddly patriotic to it – hands shoved deep in dressing gown pockets.

“I bought you a postcard.” She says, almost nonchalantly, as if she’s been waiting all day to tell him. “Top Deck, Oxford Street, Starship UK.” He just stares at her.

It’s a bit discoloured and rough around the edges; but she’s right – it is a postcard – all touristy and human-y and cheap as chips. Still, those menial things don’t matter now – it’s the sentiment, the memories culminated in the sun-bleached image of old London town. He runs his finger over the street scene before flipping it over, glancing at the date stamp.

10th April 3295. 

A handwritten message follows.

_Just because you said I couldn’t. Thank you for my first adventure!  
Amy x_

After she’s left the room, he makes sure it’s pride of place; stuck somewhere between his hearts and the mantelpiece it rests on. It stays there until the day she leaves him.

\---

From that night forward, he decides. There’s a Star Whale safe in the sky so to hell with it - Wherever they end up or whatever they’re doing, he’s going to get her something. A bought gift or something entirely penniless – as long as it encapsulates the mood of the day or their time together, it’ll be priceless. Every single time they step out on an escapade, he’s going to come back with a little something for her, so that eventually the TARDIS will be littered with all kinds of things. A love letter from regency Calais, or the last remnants of a civil war on Jaydras 3, it’ll be _their_ TARDIS then; all personal and nostalgic and everything in between.

As his plan comes to pass, they’re stuck down in the Cabinet War Rooms with bombs shattering overhead when he next gets Amy something. She seems to have one-upped him for the second day running, preventing a devastation by the skin of her teeth and with an odd Scottish flare he’s come to love so much.

Perhaps he can give some credit to Bracewell or Churchill at the very least, but that doesn’t stop him from staring right at her, light eyes trained on auburn hair and an irresistible grin. He decides then and there exactly what to give her.

Having cornered Lilian Breen for a quick conversation, he follows Amy back to the TARDIS with a pin in his fingertips; a broach in the shape of a silver bird; military wings for the girl who’s just saved the world. 

They’re standing on the copper foyer when he gives it to her, golden light reflecting in all directions as he fixes it onto the lapel of her jacket. 

“Nice job with the Spitfires, Pond”, he says quietly.

The TARDIS hums. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her speechless.

\---

The next adventure they have together is dangerous at best. In amongst the maze of the dead and the very electric forests, he’s losing her, and he can feel it. It’s his own fault for leaving her stranded and he knows it, left on the brink of life itself with everything left to lose. The next time he sees the Weeping Angels, he’s going to destroy them all. And as souvenir ideas go, he hopes he can think of something. Stuck out on the coast of Alfava Metraxis, the sea meets the sky and nothing quite lives up to his expectations. Except Amy, of course. 

Exhausted and bruised all over, they’re back on the TARDIS when he gives it to her – a pebble from the beach of their very first planet together. He holds out his hand, and there it is. 

At Amy’s expression, he looks away in slight shame, wondering if the horrors they found there are too much to bear. He’s seconds away from retracting it, letting the little the rock shatter on the glass floor beneath them. Memento or not, maybe it’s a little too late. He supposes today is something she might not want to remember. 

“I’m sorry, I just thought you’d-”

“It’s okay.” Amy says, taking it from his outstretched palm, running a finger over the cold stone. “Good things and bad things, right? Thank you.” 

If she intends to put it on display next to the battered postcard, she doesn’t say. Instead, she pockets it, and about 10 minutes of silence later, asks to go home. 

He doesn’t quite expect what happens next, but God knows he’ll always remember it.

\---

When Rory starts travelling with them, he wants to make sure that in all things that change, their souvenir tradition doesn’t. He offers her a flower from 16th century Venice, sticking it behind her ear with a kiss on the cheek. After all, she has just been bitten by a Vampire. He thinks he can be somewhat forgiven. 

In the next couple of days, when the three of them are meandering around suburban America for something to do, he ends up doodling on the menu at a roadside diner. Folding it into his pocket almost absentmindedly, he writes little messages to her throughout the day; while she and her fiancé are off doing other things.

 _Virginia Woolf just called – she says thank you for the biscuits. Were they ginger?_

Knowing Amy, they probably were. Even after he single-handedly sorts out a android incursion on the Nevada stateline – _just saved the world again, not that you’d notice_ \- he’s back in their diner booth before she is, and it’s getting close to tea time. He watches over the rim of his coffee cup as waffles greet other customers, biting the pen between is teeth.

 _Fancy some fish custard tomorrow? Think I’ve got some ice cream in the fridge._

He has no idea when he’s even going to give this to her, but it seems to be passing the time.

When she finally arrives, shopping bags piled high, he’s mapped out all the constellations in the night sky on top of the breakfast choices - the picture of a fried egg doubling for a supernova underneath the ink smudges. 

While Rory’s at the counter ordering a final coca cola, he scribbles the date and slides it over to her.

 _A sporadic shopping holiday in Nevada, October 2004._

It doesn’t take long for Amy to laugh. She keeps it on the pin board in the TARDIS kitchen, and his hearts swell with happiness every time he sees it. From then on, menu doodling becomes a tradition every time they eat out together. 

\---

Their next adventure is perhaps one he’d rather forget, and suspects she’s not a massive fan of it either. He’s never had a soft spot for Leadworth, but certainly the thought of it in dreamy 2015 hellscape form is making his skin crawl. While sleepy villages might have decent gift shops, he’s not about to give her a souvenir to remember _this_ , their worst nightmare in shining reality. If she ever asks, he’s going to apologise profusely. Nothing material stays with him after he wakes up from the dream, after all.

She hasn’t yet told him what the Dream Lord said to her, but he suspects he can guess. It’s all in his head anyway, all that burning anger and belittlement. He knows all too well what can come out of his mouth; what he’s capable of. He thinks the greatest gift he can give her tonight is some space.

\--- 

It’s got to the point now, that whenever he leaves the TARDIS, he’s thinking about what to give her. Specific presents or general musings, he’s delighted by his findings, by the way he can make her smile just by offering her a little indestructible memory for them to keep forever. 

When she first mentions wanting to go to Rio, his mind is working overtime. He’s got plentiful ideas of possible gifts in that bustling beautiful city, even before they’ve found out what intergalactic injustice they’re going to be dealing with. He’s entirely prepared to swan around the market stalls looking at precious gemstones and travel magazines, but when they instead end up in Wales at the beginning of the next decade, he’s caught completely off guard.

He can’t exactly call it one of his best days either – losing her to the smoking ground and losing Rory to the split in the skin of the world. He watches her tears in the city chamber and his hearts shatter. Dead Silurians or otherwise, this is a day stamped straight on his conscience. He pockets their wedding ring in the depths of his jacket, hoping that she never finds it there.

At the end of it all, with a little direction from Ambrose, he’s moping round a little Cwmtaff paper shop - staring without seeing at a little rack of postcards. God, putting this on the mantelpiece would be cruel at best. She’s just lost the love of her life, and here he is, thinking about holiday sentiment. Eventually, although he hates himself for it, he leaves empty handed. While he’d quite like to buy a newspaper or a little memento to remind her what the future might hold, he’s all to painfully aware she’s already forgotten. She’s standing waiting for him outside the TARDIS with a rather acute blasé sadness, and he doesn’t think the headlines in 2020 would make her feel much better. God knows they don’t make him particularly happy.

\--- 

Over the next couple of weeks, he tries his absolute best to make it up to her. Fiancé or not, he’s finding all kinds of destinations he hopes she’ll like – trips to botanical gardens built by aliens and classical Earth periods she’s never seen before.

They spend some time in Arcadia, watching ancient civilisations take shape right before their eyes. They sample the sea food and walk among temples built for Gods straight out of fairy-tales. He’s wondering what to get for her here, what could possibly sum up staring out at views like this. Eventually, he settles for a Greek urn, for they seem the most common commodity. He knows Amy won’t mind. On the contrary, he knows her well enough by now to know she’ll be thrilled by it – by the intricate depictions of human life, and the rather crudely drawn police box he’s etched on the base with a pen knife.

At the end of their adventure, he carries it back to the spaceship for her, placing it on a hallway table just by the golf course. He’s positively delighted, after their next trip out, when Amy takes it upon herself to fill it with sunflowers.

\---

Speaking of sunflowers – their escapade with Vincent Van Gogh ends in plentiful a souvenir, all dutifully given to Amy in an attempt to cheer her up a bit. Split between 1890 and 2010, the Doctor supposes it helps they’ve got a gift shop handy, the Musée D’Orsay in Paris providing all kinds of Impressionist-themed trinkets. He walks straight past the postcards and books for something special, loitering in the jewellery section for silver sunflowers and rings with imprints of almond blossom. He could buy her a scarf with _Irises_ on it, or a paintbrush used by his-truly, if he has enough money in his pockets.

In the end though, he settles for the little sunflower necklace, which Amy puts on in an instant, letting it glint auburn next to her ginger hair in the outside snow. He takes her hand as they make their way leisurely back into the TARDIS, as the night closes in. But if Amy thinks he’s stopping there, she’s got another thing coming. He corners her in her room a little while later for the second round of souvenir gifting – offering her a gigantic poster of _A Starry Night_ in all its vibrant colour. When he comes back the next day, he’s thrilled that she’s hung it pride of place above her bed to remind her of the sky they saw together. Through the blueness and the blackness of the world as it is, the stars do indeed roar their light in a way he could never have dreamed of. He supposes it goes without saying.

\---

Even though he’s entirely opposed to it, they do end up back in Wales at the end of the week – this time on the pierhead in Cardiff, 2006. Finally consoling himself that she won’t be caught out by any mismatched memories or the sporadic nature of the adventure, he settles down to watch her enjoy the view. Amy seems to be having a good time feeding the seagulls at any rate, sitting by the waterfall in the plaza. He takes her hand and they run for it, straight down past a building made of red sandstone and out unto the sea. There’s a biting wind in their hair and he decides, to hell with it – he hasn’t danced in a while. He’s not sure there’s even a name for what they end up doing – a quick number full of twists and turns, wrapped tight by a twirling chaotic nature he probably should have seen coming. She lets him run their fingers together and laugh, renting a little boat out on the bay as the sun goes down.

To remember it, he buys her another postcard while she’s window shopping with ice-creams – signing it off with an already nostalgic flourish.

_Cardiff, ’06. Thanks for the dance, Pond. X_

At this stage, their mantelpiece is getting a little full.

\---

When he sees her again after those three days in Colchester 2010, he wants nothing more than to give her the biggest hug in the world. His time with Craig and Sophie has been educational to say the least, but he’s still been longing to get back to her for longer than he might care to admit. He was this close to losing her, after all.

Fresh from saving the world, souvenirs are hardly at the front of his mind, but the second she steps out of the TARDIS, ginger hair fluttering in Essex breeze, he’s determined to give her something.

He takes her to the park at the outskirts of town, where he won a football match on a hazy Sunday afternoon. He tells her all the details and persuades her to sit with him on the grass by the bandstand, Coco the cat following in their wake. Nibbling at the tuna platter Amy’s brought him, the cat seems happy enough in their company, as Doctor runs his fingers through the grass. Very carefully, he makes her a daisy chain, picking the flowers from the bottom of the stem and looping them into a necklace. When Amy says nothing, he places it softly over her head, arranging it like a priceless golden chain. Out in the breeze, the petals flutter, and unlike his other gifts, he knows it won’t last. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

“I’m glad you’re okay”, he says softly. 

\--- 

After the end of the universe, at the culmination of it all, he gets her a wedding present. It just seems like the right thing to do.

He’s almost surprised he’s been able to stay sane these last few days, with everything that’s been going on. One minute Rory’s back from the dead and then the next he’s not - the entire sky choosing to phase in and out of existence at a moment’s notice. Trapped in Pandoricas and surviving splits in the skin of the world, he’s surprised any of them have come out of this completely unscathed. 

But of course, as is always the way, even at the end of the world, the most important thing isn’t the stars themselves, it’s Amy Pond. 

He turns up dressed in coat tails, late as ever – and smiles at her like the cosmos might protest otherwise.

Like the daisy chain he placed around her neck three weeks ago, he lets a brand-new TARDIS key settle next to her silver sunflower. From Amy’s point of view, she supposes, it’s almost like being knighted with the highest honour in the world. 

“There we are, Amelia.” He says, touching the metal at her chest, “Keys, at last. To a time-ship that’s as much yours as it is mine. God knows you’ve deserved it.”

In that blur of a moment she’s hugging him, pulling at lapels into her shoulder with hands in the small of his back. Nestled into his jacket, she says: “You’ve definitely topped the postcards”, and he smiles. He likes to think so. 

\---

Later, when they’re all back in the TARDIS after yet another dance, the Doctor smiles slightly at the sight of his retreating companion, just about to traipse up the stairs in her wedding dress.

“Oh, Amelia,” he calls, “I got you something else – it’s only little.”

He presents her with a little paper booklet, age stained and ripped at the edges – made by a school girl many years ago. It’s a history project with the title: _Invasion of the hot Italians._

Amy stares, before she laughs. “My favourite topic at school! You remembered? After all that?”

The Doctor shrugs with a glint in his eyes. “Of course. Happy reading. Goodnight, Pond.” 

“Goodnight, raggedy man.” 

\---

Even though she gets married in June, the next adventure the three of them have together seems to be at Christmas. She wakes up in her darkened bedroom on board the TARDIS, with Rory sleeping soundly next to her. 

Looking to her left, as if it’s always been there, a neatly wrapped present sits on her bedside table.

In the slip of artificial moonlight, Amy reads the label.

 _Dear Amelia,_ it reads, in the Doctor’s loopy script, _Merry Christmas._

God only knows what he’s got her this time. She can’t help but smile.

\---

Among other things, Amy’s found, for a time traveller, the Doctor is oddly partial to souvenirs. Wherever they go, he’s always buying things, or fashioning something, little mementos for her to remember him by.

By the time Manhattan and the Angels roll around, their little blue box is covered in nostalgia, pictures and takeaway menus fluttering from every wall. From 62nd century Paraguay to the dawn of the Dark Ages, it doesn’t matter. Handwritten kisses adorn every mantelpiece and pebbles from every beach in the galaxy pile high in a glass jar.

That day, when he enters his TARDIS without her, he takes one look at his time-ship and breaks down in tears.

A postcard of old London town glints in the firelight of the library, looping script long since faded. 

_Thank you for my first adventure!_

She went out with him this morning not knowing it would be her last.

A part of him wants to pack all of it away, to hide in the deepest drawer he can find – like he did with her engagement ring all those years ago.

Where’s that got to now, he wonders? Buried with her, no doubt.

He doesn’t want to think about that.

Another part of him wants to leave it exactly as it is. 

These souvenirs are all he has left of her, his sweet little Amelia Pond, for never again will she swan down the stairs of the TARDIS with a ridiculous grin, or save a planet with her eyes shut. She’ll never again give him a stupid hug or write him a note in a café under the setting sun. 

He never thinks about these kinds of things before it’s too late. 

He probably should have learnt by now.

Eventually, sitting alone on his cloud above Victorian London, he gathers up all the postcards and the decorated menus, all the pictures and that Afterword of hers.

He looks over their life together one final time before he drops it all into the fire.


End file.
